


What's your duty?

by GirlRunningTheWorld



Category: 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm so sorry, The Author Regrets Everything, slightly AU-ish I guess, though i just filled the gaps, with my own headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlRunningTheWorld/pseuds/GirlRunningTheWorld
Summary: When they meet for the first time, it's screams, tears and blood and it's tragedy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	What's your duty?

**Author's Note:**

> It took me literally four days to write this, though the first one was in Juny, and other three in November.  
I took some liberties with using french whenever I found it fitting :^) Most of the words are italicized and easy to recognize. Character's thoughts are italicized too.  
That's all I wanted to emphasize I guess.  
Hope you'll enjoy it (pls don't kill me) :)

When they meet for the first time, it's screams, tears and blood and it's tragedy. 

Those peasants didn't pay the taxes in time and now it's his duty to bring them to their punishment, simple as that.  
They are ready to leave when a young man with fierce eyes rushes forward in futile attempt to stop them. He is quickly pulled back by another villager but doesn’t obey and stand back as a good citizen, no.  
The rebel shouts encouragements and people absorb his words and stand by his side, ready to start a riot. This he can't allow. One last time he demands abidance and getting a strict _non_ as an answer he commands the attack. They made their choice.  
While his men take down the revolted he aims at the instigator but misses as somebody pushes him from behind. He turns swiftly and shoots the intruder, one of the prisoners, performing the immediate sentence.  
-Père! - cries the young man and catches the falling body.  
Taking in running villagers, fresh corpses and injured men he considers his job here done and turns to leave when a feeling stops him. Out of some primal instinct he looks back and meets the glare full of such intense hatred that he stops dead in his track, unable to look away. The promise of revolution flares in it.  
-Monstre, - mouths the young man and looks down on his dead father, breaking the spell.  
Before he finally goes away he notices tears streaming down the tanned face and female figure laying its hands on man's shoulders. 

_My duty is to serve my King and obey the laws. _  
He knows it and he believes it and he doesn't feel any remorse. 

When they meet for the second time, it's prison, clattering handcuffs and stuffy air and it's interrogation. 

The young man, Ronan, _révolutionnaire_ and _républicain_, answers only the first three questions: his name, age and place of birth, and stays stubbornly silent when asked anything else. He doesn't have a lot of patience for his non-cooperation and very soon it wears thin.  
The first blow comes to the prisoner's stomach and leaves him gasping for air.  
-J'ai besoin de noms, - he repeats steadily as he sits back. The only response he gets is a hateful glare and gritted teeth. He sighs mentally. _So you don't want it to be easy. _  
He calls the guards from the outside and tells them to take care of their guest.  
When the young man can do nothing more than wince in pain after another blow he stops them and sends off, once more staying tête-à-tête with the prisoner. He takes him by the already torn collar and forcefully seats on the chair and when the young man's body tilts to the left he grabs his hair and lifts his wounded face. In the hushed candle light it looks ill and clouded gaze doesn't help the impression.  
-Noms, - he demands and is surprised to see the prisoner's mouth actually working to form some words.  
Though the answer itself is a blooded spit to his face and a crooked grin.  
He is satisfied enough when after the other punch the prisoner grunts painfully.  
Before leaving, he says:  
-You have one more day to tell me everything. After that you'll be executed.  
He doesn't go far before he hears hoarse "Vive la France! Vive la République!".  
_Rebellious scum. You want to bring chaos to our country and on its remnants build your foolish utopie. If given the opportunity you'll murder every aristocrate and then each other because there will be no laws to restrain your cruelty. I will never let that happen. _

Their next session is "promising" from the beginning.  
He expects the prisoner to be if not tractable then at least quiet but not loud and demanding. When the guards grab him by shoulders he shoves them away and says that they didn't break his legs yesterday and he can go on his own. _Yet._  
He also makes a fuss over being not-so-gently thrown into the cell and heavy handcuffs and spring heat and addle water and…  
-Silence! - he can already feel the headache approaching as the prisoner do as much as completely ignores him and keeps on listing all the inconveniences.  
-Tais-toi! - he has to slap the idiot across the face to shut him finally up. The glare he receives is more appreciated than the previous rant. Thankfully, the prisoner stays quiet as he skans the reports he got from his agents today. _Works at Marat's journal; visits suspicious clubs; arrested trying to rob an aristocrate. Here's your typical portrait of a revolutionist. _  
They have already been tracking down Jean-Paul Marat for some time but his popularity amongst the folk gives him quite a solid protection. If they arrest him now the only result will be revolt. No, they need someone else, who can be easily accused and made a good example for others. Someone like Ronan. He doesn't have as much importance, but in the nearest future can become dangerous because just as with Marat people listen to him. And do whatever he tells them to.  
He observes the young man in front of him. In fact, nothing is special about him: his clothes were torn from the beginning and now look more like rags, dark dirty curls frame exhausted face with split lip and bruised eye, and there are probably hundreds of parisians who looks exactly the same. But none of them has his fire.  
-What are you trying to prove? You'll gain nothing through your foolish attempts to destroy the régime, - it's not like he really is interested, but this particular theme will definitely untie prisoner's tongue.  
-You'll see, - he growls angrily, still stubborn to give a proper answer.  
-Avenge your father? - he strikes the nerve as young man springs up and forward, only chains and handcuffs preventing him from going for Lazare's throat.  
-Don't you dare say another word about my father, murderer! - he spits and sits back.  
-Or what? - he asks, unimpressed. - You are already imprisoned and will soon meet your fate all because of your thirst for revenge. Were your struggles worth it?  
-Struggling for brighter future is way better than doing nothing and awaiting the unfair sentence to condemn you.  
-So that you can face the fair, - he smirks at the ridiculous statement. - Who do you think you are, _petit miséreux_, to question the laws accepted by his Majesty?  
-I'm the citizen, - he gets an unexpected answer. - I'm the one who suffers from the unbearable taxes, while aristos like you don't have to pay a single sou!  
-We fulfill our duty by serving our King and have been doing so for centuries. Privileges don't emerge out of thin air.  
-And what did _you_ do to deserve them? Killed innocents?  
-Every one of them broke the law and got their punishment, - as if these accusations will throw him aback. He knows how to stand his ground. - I inherited my title and my land, and my ancestors fought for them with their lives. That's how this world works.  
-_**Then I will change it**_, - the young man, no, _révolutionnaire_, says passionately, and he swears he can _feel_ the fire behind his words.  
_So foolish. You'll gladly trade your life for nothing. But still…it's endearing._  
-How? What can you do on your own? Without any knowledge of how it works? - unintentionally, he leans closer in his seat.  
-I'm not alone. Plenty of citizens are already sick and tired of the ones who abuses the power and play with our lives as if we are their toys!  
\- And you think you can reign better? Afford the economy, politics, army, judgement, and other branches? - _even thinking about it makes me laugh. _  
-If taught properly, - and at that, he does laugh. The young man immediately flares up. - What's so funny?!  
-Just that you presume this folk _wants_ to be educated. People whose only purpose of life is having enough food supplies and occasionally getting drunk.  
-It's your fault. Do you think those who can't even buy a loaf of bread would think about anything other than their hunger and thirst? - _he does have a point._  
-And if they had everything they needed? Do you believe them to become gladly involved in building your _naïve utopie_? - judging from the slightly surprised look, his opponent didn't even consider this.  
-But it's their rights that we fight for!  
-Rights to do what? - _he already loses it. Hmph, and what did I expect from a paysan?_ The very thought of him expecting something from a prisoner takes him aback. _I didn't mean to be interested in this conversation._  
While he is lost in his own mind the young man composes himself.  
-Rights to choose their own fate. To wright fair laws that would ease the sufferings of the poor and impose taxes on the privileged. To work wherever they want despite their background. To be free from the court's games. To fight for their families instead of _a king_, - he frowns at the implicated insult. - What do _you_ fight for? - and all of a sudden, the one interrogated is him.  
He can lie, he can command the silence, he can ignore the question, he can simply leave, but under the look of these intense green eyes it all feels like admitting a defeat. _Turns out, cornering him I myself was caught into a trap._  
-I fight for the peace in our country. I vowed to obey the laws and perform the sentence for those who violated them. To prevent France from choking on the blood of its citizens I have to stop rebels like _you_, - he sees the prisoner readiness to protest and shuts him with a glare of his own. - If you want the laws to be changed you must bow your head and show courtesy instead of insulting his Majesty with your disgraceful pamphlets.  
-As if it will work, - the emotions on this bruised face are complicated and he doesn't want to interpret them. - I'm not some important aristo like you. They will never listen to me.  
_And why does he sound like I should soothe him? _  
Only then he notices it. Under his anger, pursuit for justice, bold behavior and foolish bravado the prisoner, _Ronan_, has barely reached the adulthood. Thankfully, the young man speaks before he can fully process this thought.  
-So the only way for me to be heard is to shout as loud as I can. And I did even that it cost me my life, - he looks Lazare square in the eye as if daring him to shoot him on the spot. He doesn't.  
_You are already convicted so why do you fight so hard? What could you possibly gain out of your last talk? You sit here ready to die for the futile attempt to change the world and don't even flinch looking at your executor._  
_Ah, I see it now. You'd rather be the martyr of the tyranny than the one who begged for its mercy._  
If that is the case, he won't get anything if he continues the dialog. He just wastes his time discussing nonsense with the man who has already accepted his death.  
-It did, - at last, he answers. It sounds hollow even to his own ears and raises an unexpected wave of anger entwined with the bitterness. He stands swiftly ready to leave. - The talk is over. Tomorrow, at nine in the morning, you will be executed with the gibbet. Your last wish?  
-I don't have any, - the prisoner doesn't look frightened, though there is some lingering sadness in his eyes. He averts his gaze. It's none of his concern.  
He turns to the exit and opens the door to call the guards, when Ronan speaks up.  
-Though, if you ever… No, nevermind. She doesn't need to know. It's even better if she never finds out, - he mutters mostly to himself.  
The thought _"who are you speaking about?"_ nags at his consciousness but he dismisses it and simply nods, quitting the stuffy room and ordering to put the prisoner back into his cell.  
He doesn't look back when he rushes down the stairs.

_My duty is to serve my King and obey the laws. _  
He knows it and he believes it, and even if he refuses to acknowledge it he feels a sting where his heart is. 

When the next day he learns that the prisoner has disappeared he only stares blankly at the rambling officer trying to process the information. Then, as if in trance, he crosses Ronan's name out of the records and tells the guards to forget the incident.  
_I hope I'll never see him again._

When they meet for the last time, it's shouts, cannons firing and panic and it's death. 

The situation has been troubling from the beginning and now it turned into a disaster. Most of his troops joined the rebels in their cavalcade for the powder and guns and he could do nothing to stop them. This is the first time he has lost control and he is dazed out so much he just follows the crowd desperately trying to think of anything to stop the madness.  
He ends up in front of the Bastille when the events are on their highest and spots a familiar face despite the gunpowder thick in the air.  
_What an irony that we both are here at this hour._  
He doesn't approach and merely observes from the safe distance rebels' efforts to take down the fort. As so far they reached the inner yard and already have casualties. Ronan, and it's definitely him, isn't even armed and seems to be one in command or at least passes the orders down to others. And, occupied with his role, he never sees the bullet coming.  
It hits him from behind. He stills for a painfully long moment and falls on his knees but instead of the impact of solid ground he feels something softer.  
_And what on the earth am I doing?_  
He didn't mean to leave his corner to try and catch the falling body while risking his own life. So why does he hold onto the young man whom he was to execute?  
He throws one of Ronan's arms over his shoulder and taking most of his weight on himself drags him out of the plain view. Only when they are safely hidden behind the cart he carefully eases the young man down. Ignoring dubious looks from the two guardsmen who probably recognised him he focuses on the injury.  
_Too bad. He breathes blood. The lung is pierced. He didn't die from the shock but he won't last long. _  
-So…you did…finish me? - he returns his attention towards Ronan. His gaze is already clouded and it's a painful sight.  
-It wasn't me, - somehow it feels important to elaborate.  
-Doesn't…matter. We are…free now. I did…everything…I could, - he tries to smile and then coughs, blood on his lips.  
_Was your life worth it? To die for the future you'll never get to see? To be one of the many forgotten? You escaped and chose exactly the same fate by yourself. Even the place. Ironic, isn't it?_  
-You did, - he doesn't give a voice to his thoughts. There is not much time left.  
-'m tired. I'll…just…rest…a bit, - the last words are barely audible. Ronan closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath and…is gone.  
He has seen it many times and he knows that it's over but he still checks for the pulse. There is none. 

He stays by Ronan's side until one of his friends finally notices his absence and goes looking for him. There are pleas and tears, and he feels out of place though he still doesn't move and stands near, stranger as he is. The grieve has just subsided when two women, one of them Olymp du Puget, show up. He averts his gaze and turns to leave but is stopped by the second woman with the same fierce eyes he first saw year ago.  
-You!.. You killed him! - her words brings everyone's attention to him. He is speechless for a moment but quickly composes his posture.  
-Do you see any weapons on me, woman? - the last thing he wishes is to be accused of Ronan's murder.  
-You just dropped them somewhere, - she points a spear at him and narrows her eyes, - did you think I wouldn't recognize you? That I forgot what you've done?  
And, at the worst possible moment, Olymp stops crying and stands up, determination in her pose and tears in her voice.  
-I thought I saved him from you. Père told me you'd let him go. So why?.. Why did you take him from me?!  
_I didn't kill him. I couldn't save him even if I tried. I'm sorry for your loss. _  
It isn't enough to soothe or convince anyone.  
-Compte de Peyrol, if I'm not mistaken? - the one he presumed to be Ronan's friend takes his place near the second woman, whom he finally identifies as Ronan's sister he only saw once. - Though we've never met before I thought better of you than shoot civilian from behind.  
-It suits him, - spits Ronan's sister. - After all, he is just a dirty murderer.  
He opens his mouth to protest but what can he say? _I didn't do it?_ In all honest they don't seem to cary about his words. His mere presence is enough proof for them.  
He doesn't flinch when the man points a pistol at him.  
-Does your silence mean your confession?  
-Even if I said otherwise you wouldn't listen to me, - he answers steadily.  
-Your last wish? - _déjà-vu, isn't it? Though that time I was the one who asked this question._  
-He doesn't deserve one! Just shoot him! - shouts the woman angrily and emphasizes her point with a stomp. _She is even more furious than him if that is possible._  
-Either way I don't have one, - _maybe that_ is _what I deserve. To die from the hand of a rebel because of the false accusation. _  
He doesn't have wife or children, only his younger brother, so there won't be anyone left to grieve for too long.  
He sees the trigger being cocked up and counts down in his head.  
_Trois_  
_Deux_  
_Un_

-Stop right there, young man. He didn't kill the poor boy, - the familiar voice sounds somewhere from the left. One of his older soldiers, George Monceaux, steps into his view and lowers the gun so that it faces the ground instead of his chest.  
-How can you tell that?! - demands the woman. The guardsman meets her fierce glare calmly.  
-Because I saw it. Captain tried to save him but it was too late. Anyway, if you inspected the wound better, - he turns his gaze towards the man and lets go of his pistol so that he can look at him properly, - you'd notice that the inlet is much higher than outlet. He was shot from the fort, not the ground.  
-...thank you, - he answers weakly and exhales the breath he was holding.  
-From the day I saw you I thought of you as a heartless arrogant bastard, - Monceaux tells him thoughtfully. _Great start for a defending speech_. - Though, today I changed my mind. You're still an arrogant bastard, but you do have a heart.  
-Then…he didn't kill Ronan? - Olymp, who has been sitting near the body after her outburst, voices the main question.  
-No, - and from the lips of one of the rebels it sounds trustworthy for them.

-What are you going to do now, Captain? Your troops dismissed themselves and joined the rebels. Bastille has fallen. The court is in panic. What's your course of actions? - they sit at the bench somewhere at Palais Royal. Even in the most hidden areas of Paris the victorious cries can be heard.  
-You don't have to call me captain anymore. As you said, you dismissed yourself, - he stares at the ground and not a single coherent thought crosses his mind.  
-Calling you anything other doesn't feel right, - guardsman, _he is a rebel now_, pauses for a long moment and takes a deep breath. - Seems like you don't know.  
-I don't, - he echos.  
-Firstly, I would recommend you going home and change. Then, eat something. And after you are calm enough, sit down and decide for yourself what is your duty.  
-My...duty? - he lifts his gaze and looks at Monceaux in askance. The old man grins at him with an actual kindness he saw for the last time when he was four or five.  
-Yes, Captain. Every soldier must know what and who he is fighting for. Especially those who leads others to the bright future, - he winces at the memories these words bring. _"Struggling for brighter future is way better than doing nothing"_. It was their first and last conversation.  
-And you…what are you fighting for? - he asks for the sake of avoiding the silence.  
-Ah, good question. For my daughters, grandchildren and my wife, I guess. Though I doubt the latter. She has never been satisfied with my salary and presents, - he gives a good-humored laugh. - You too should marry some pretty comtess. When you aren't giving the orders you look quite lonely.  
_He scolds me as if I'm 16 years old._  
He doesn't find it in him to protest.  
-But the times are changing, - he adds seriously. - You saw what happened today. It's not the end. I'm not good at predicting but even I feel that it's more than a mere revolt. People have never liked aristocrats and now their hatred has doubled. So, you should find a lady before everything goes to hell, - Monceaux finishes half-jokingly.  
_Finding a lady is the least of my concern right now. _  
-Thank you for your…advice, - he mumbles.  
-You're welcome, Captain. And now, I must take my leave. You don't have much time to think so make a right decision, - and with that, he is gone. 

_My duty… I've always known what I fought for. I uttered a vow to serve his Majesty and obey the laws. I blindly followed the rules and punished those who was considered guilty according to them. Turns out, they weren't just. What should I do now? Proceed? Step back? Join the rebels? Emigrate? No, I won't leave my country. I still want to do the right thing: punish the guilty and save the innocents. If people see me as an enemy they will never obey my orders. So…it doesn't leave me with much choice. _

_My duty is to serve my country and bring the justice for its citizens. It's too much to dream about but I'll try. _  
He still wonders about it, but he believes it and he will never forget this boy, _Ronan Mazurier_, with fierce green eyes that closed too early to see the better world he gave his life for.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for everything, especially for my english :/


End file.
